


only the lonely know this feeling ain't right

by lushthemagicdragon



Category: Historical Criminals RPF, Legend (2015)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Explicit Language, I believe this is what we used to call in the olden days a lime, Intentionally Bad Spelling & Grammar, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Not a Love Story, Not implied but not explicit either, Psychosis, Sexual Content, Talking rough and all that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 16:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5546669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lushthemagicdragon/pseuds/lushthemagicdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cleaning up Ron after the brawl in Esmeralda's was the only time  that Teddy felt he and Ron were almost like a proper fucking couple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	only the lonely know this feeling ain't right

There was only one time that Teddy felt like he and Ron were a proper fucking couple.  They _weren’t_ , that wasn’t what this was, but just once he almost felt it.  Reggie limped off to find his girl after the fight (The future Mrs. Kray with her weak constitution, that was a laugh), but not before catching his breath and telling Teddy to take care of his mess of a brother muttering on the floor.  Not Leslie for all he’d been preening, being the new pink and puckered ring on Ronnie’s finger.  No, Leslie’d gone and gotten his nose fucking broken by not getting out of the way in time, cocking his fucking neck about like he was keeping score of the punches landed.  Besides, what did Leslie matter?  He wasn’t Teddy, and that was the beginning and end of it wonnit?  So Leslie sat with ice on his face at the bar while Mad Teddy Smith calmly collected Ronnie Kray from the floor and helped him into his car.  

When Ronnie Kray says something’s interesting, it means he don’t know a damn thing that’s going on in his own head.  That’s what they say anyway, but Teddy knows better.  Hasn’t heard Ron say something’s interesting to him in a long time, not since he was keeping cosy in Ron’s trailer in the woods.  He just babbles, lets the unfiltered waterfall of words come tumbling out, and Teddy listens.  He listens to words that only half make sense all the way back to Ron’s flat.  The sentences break and drop like there’s too much going on, like there’s so much to say and the pieces don’t fit together nicely.  Teddy’s hand sits comfortably against Ron’s back and the only breaks in the flood are the occasional “ _yeah Ron, I get you”._ Because the way Teddy sees it, Ron doesn’t say something’s _interesting_ because he don’t get it, but because he’s sure no one else will.  They never do, and Teddy knows that one from experience.  (Broadmoor gets inside your head, and sometimes the only ones who can dig you out know the way ‘because they’ve done it themselves.)  

Funny how someone everyone’s scared to shit of can be so self-conscious.    

(Except it’s not fucking funny, and for once Teddy doesn’t laugh.)  

“And he’s just gonna keep _fucking_ on about it, and it’s not right in there, with all them--fucking _gangsters_ like we always fucking was...”  

“Mhm, proper fucking gangsters,” Teddy answers like an echo as he removes Ron’s glasses and places them down on the edge of the sink.  He didn’t think he’d end up here of all places, playing nurse to Fat Ronnie, when he first got it in his head to get in with the Krays.  Even when he heard the warning that Ron was coming around to the Carpenter’s Arms and instead of booking it out of dodge unbuttoned his top two and _waited._ Things changed though, and his own damage made his mind fickle.  On his knees, wearing trousers tailored just for him, unbuttoning a bloody shirt while Ron mumbled from his porcelain throne, interjecting to tell Teddy to be a good boy and clean the blood off tiles thank you, and he’s not sure there’s anywhere he’d rather be.  Leslie could be here, but Leslie Holt wouldn’t know where to start in piecing Ronnie Kray back together.  

A pause in the endless run on sentence has Teddy stopping at Ron’s belt, looking up to watch his heavy chest rise and fall like he’d run a mile.  

“Teddy.”

“Yeah, Ron?”

“Reg, he doesn’t want to understand but you, you understand what I’m sayin’, what’s...what’s goin’ on in my _head_ , is that right Teddy?”  

“Yeah I do, Ron.  You going to be alright?”

“No I’m not going to be _fucking_ alright.”  Ronnie’s voice was raising again, words dragging together, and Teddy didn’t flinch.  “It’s them god damn pills Teddy, they’re driving me mad and I am not mad, and _you_ , why are you _fucking_ looking at me?  I don’t...Teddy I don’t understand why you’re _here_ , you see?  Good looking lad like yourself, and how you keep eyeing up Reggie like he’s a fucking lollie, for fucks sake get up off the floor.”  

He did say how good Reggie looked, didn’t he?  It hadn’t meant anything, just words coming out of his mouth like Ronnie’s own tangent of miscarried sentiment.  He got up like he was told (you always did what Ronnie Kray told you to fucking do unless you wanted a bruise in the shape of Ron’s name on the side of your head), but who would he be if he didn’t sink back down onto Ron’s lap?  Not Mad Teddy Smith that was for sure.  Mad as a fucking hatter he was, taking Ron’s orders and twisting them to fit whatever he’d got in mind, and Ron would just let him fill the gaps if it wasn’t too inconvenient wouldn’t he?  Ron barely contained a wince at the pressure on a growing bruise to his abdomen when Teddy tugged his shirt right out of his trousers and held on to his undershirt like an anchor in shifting sand.  

“What I say, Ron?  I said I get you, yeah?”

“Yes, yes you did.”  

Strong hands wrapped around his hips, holding him in place without weight or energy; a symbolic containment.  (Some people just didn’t fucking get that Ron was a poet not a great big ape.)  Teddy reached over to the rag he’d dropped in the sink, wet it, and dabbed at the blood crusting around Ron’s nose, looking up to lock onto shifting, distant eyes trying desperately to find the lighthouse in the fog.  (Seen that look in the mirror hasn’t he?  Teddy knows that look.)  

“So I’m going to clean you up, and you ain’t going to have to take those pills if you don’t want to.  I’m not going anywhere--we nutters got to stick together.”  

Ron grabbed the towel out of Teddy’s hand and, for a second he’d thought _well now I’ve gone and fucking put my foot in my mouth, calling Ron a nutter._ The towel was dropped into the sink though, not shoved into his mouth, and the growl in Ron’s throat as he instructed “ _c'mere,_ ” was more pushy and possessive than a spark to rage.  He pulled Teddy closer, symbolic containment becoming a rougher manhandle, and caught Teddy’s lips in his own.  They sat there just kissing, all lips, blood and tongue and less teeth than usual, Ron’s breath evening out like Teddy was a respirator rather than a person.  He’s not sure how long it was, and he’s not sure he cares, and when Ron did his god damn best to lift him and stand at the same time without breaking away from his air source, the illusion of time didn’t slip up or break into a sense of reality (because what was reality, really, if not whatever they fucking made of it?)  He dropped him, cursed as Teddy laughed, and “ _Ah fuck, you little...get up now, you’re alright yeah?_ ” and Teddy just scrambled up and dragged his Fat Fucking Ronnie towards his fat fucking bed for a fat fucking shag.  

Ronnie fucked him slower than normal, face to face, nose to broken nose and without an egging word or comment about his pert little fucking ass taking in all of his cock. They just _kissed_ like they were fucking normal, like this isn’t a relationship of co-dependent convenience for the two of them, breathing the same air and when Ronnie pushed into him, sucking on his bottom lip, Teddy couldn’t  help but think that this was _fucking nice, innit?_


End file.
